Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

  He also remembered that his joy had stopped when he’d entered his empty bedroom. He’d made a decision last night, and here it was mid-morning with him still in bed.

  After his trademark knock, Ben entered Vinnie’s room and took a seat on the couch opposite Vinnie in his usual window chair, his feet up on the ottoman. Ben fidgeted with the throw pillow. Nothing was said about the evening with Ginny and Dan.

  “Vinnie, we need to discuss your living arrangements. I’d like to move you from this room and—”

  Vinnie shouted, “Fuck! I knew this day would come.” He burst out crying.

  Ben’s head jerked up and his mouth dropped. “Wait, let me finish. I want you out of this room… if you would consider moving into mine.”

  Vinnie jumped off his chair and kissed Ben with open lips. Ben waited for Vinnie to back away.

  “I’m so happy I could cry,” Vinnie said. And he did.

  Ben hugged Vinnie until he winced. “Too hard? I’m happy too. Now I’m going to cry,” said Ben with a dry-eyed smile. “I’ve wanted to ask for days, but I wasn’t sure you liked me. It wasn’t until I had dinner with Blanca…” Ben looked away. Fuck, I wasn’t supposed to say that.

  “Blanca? She told you? That traitor. I promised her to secrecy.”

  “It’s not like that. She was making a joke. I can’t explain, it just happened. Blanca asked me not to tell you… you should thank her.”

  “You’re afraid of me? Think I might beat the crap out of you or something?”

  “Let’s say ‘or something.’”

  Vinnie jumped full straddle onto Ben’s lap. Ben resumed his bear hug, and Vinnie gasped.

  “Oh, sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Well, a little. We’ll need to adjust to our size difference.” Vinnie looked down at Ben’s pants. “In more ways than one.”

  With a glance down at Vinnie’s pants, Ben answered, “Looks like I’ve got competition in one area. We’ll explore that later.”

  “That’s not a hospital cast, in case you’re wondering,” Vinnie said, stroking Ben’s head. “You need to be somewhere?”

  ****

  Ben carried Vinnie up a wide staircase to the top floor and into his bedroom—now their bedroom. Vinnie was in uncharted territory: a man twice his size and a new floor of the condo. Ben’s bedroom was smaller than the one he’d been staying in, yet twice his entire Village apartment. It was plainly furnished though, with a bed, a couch, table, and an easy chair with ottoman. That suited Vinnie fine for what he imagined would be the room’s only two uses.

  Laying Vinnie on the bed, Ben removed Vinnie’s clothes and tossed them into the corner of the room. His own clothes joined Vinnie’s. At first Ben explored Vinnie’s upper body, testing each part. Vinnie wasn’t anywhere near as fit as Dan; in fact Vinnie was thin, partly due to his injury and partly his stature. And his face didn’t match Dan’s crystal eyes, his symmetrical face, sculpted nose, high cheekbones, dimpled chin, and velvet lips. Vinnie was standard off-the shelf; Dan was one-of-a-kind.

  Yet Ben stirred. Unlike his physical attraction to Dan, this went further. Vinnie was not a gorgeous body but a beautiful person. His months conversing with Vinnie had created a bond. They had shared laughs, cries, stories, histories, and created their own narrative. Ben desired Vinnie.

  If Ben overlooked Vinnie’s physical attributes, the same could not be said of Vinnie. He had no idea what could have created the lumps that covered Ben’s body. There were too many to count, and nowhere to grab hold. Vinnie rubbed Ben’s pectorals with the sensation he was cleaning a granite countertop; he smiled, thinking that an electric buffer would be more efficient. Nothing about Ben’s body excited Vinnie: the grotesque size and checkerboard veins, the hardened sinews. And yet, as repulsed as he was, Vinnie, too, desired Ben, needed him.

  They explored—touching, looking, kissing. Ben saw Vinnie’s eyes shift from side to side, up and down. So Ben did what he always did: he flexed. He puffed out his chest and pressed his hands together, creating globes. Vinnie’s hand was too small to cover more than half. Ben flexed a double-bicep pose, and Vinnie looked away, surprising Ben.

  Their desires didn’t match their understanding of how to proceed. Ben moved off Vinnie, suggesting Vinnie be on top. Vinnie rested above Ben’s crouch, his fingers on Ben’s abdomen to steady himself. Leaning over, Vinnie looked into Ben’s eyes, at his lips, watched the small breaths slip in and out. These held Vinnie’s attention more than mounded meat. Ben’s face reflected all that Vinnie desired: kindness, generosity, empathy, and maybe love. Vinnie leaned across, his mouth touching Ben’s, and their tongues engaged, Vinnie pulling Ben’s neck.

  Encouraged, Ben spread his legs, his hard penis springing across Vinnie’s backside. Vinnie responded with his own erection poking into Ben’s chest.

  Ben’s coarse tongue explored Vinnie’s mouth. The men devoured each other, restraint swept aside. Ben lubricated Vinnie with gel from his side table, marveling at Vinnie’s symmetrical, puckered, perfectly round balls. They made Ben wish he’d had bigger implants.

  The curiosity over equipment made Vinnie look around. He estimated their cocks were about equal in length, though Ben’s had a greater circumference. The lower side of Ben’s penis had a prominent vein, as if he’d lifted weights with it. Vinnie stroked the vein, and got a soft sound from Ben in response. Ben’s balls were big too, which surprised Vinnie, who knew the side effects of testosterone injections. Even so, Vinnie knew that his surpassed Ben. Yet Ben’s were harder—a curiosity he’d ask about later.

  With ease, Ben lifted himself up and guided Vinnie into his hole. Ben’s smile anticipated the penetration, the joy drifting from face to body. Vinnie followed Ben’s instructions, not caring how he made entry.

  “Fuckin’ great.”

  “Glad you like it, Vinnie. There’s more to go.”

  Neither man wanted a long conversation; they were mostly content to moan. Neither worried about protection either, each having logged six months or more in abstinence.

  Vinnie cried out as Ben pulled him in. “Keep going, I love this.”

  And Ben did, lifting Vinnie’s ass, pushing him deep. Vinnie tried an embrace, but barely reached the sides of Ben’s jumbo jet lateral wings. Vinnie grabbed Ben’s throbbing dick, grinning with approval at his other ballast choice.

  Excitement coated them like sprinkles. Ben stuck his finger into Vinnie’s crack, giving the same tambourine play to Vinnie’s balls that he’d given to Dan. Then Ben moved his finger deeper inside, pressing Vinnie’s prostate until he felt the surge. Vinnie burst inside and out with a shout; he filled Ben to capacity. Seconds later Ben shot as well, his sizzling jism smacking the headboard. Their rhythm continued until they were spent.

  “Fuckin’ fantastic. Thank you, Ben. That was my best fuck ever.”

  Ben’s response seemed flat to Vinnie.

  “Was it not okay for you? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. It was, as you say, fucking fantastic.”

  “So?”

  Ben was quiet.

  “Ben, say something.”

  “I will, but not now. That was probably your first exercise in months, so let me give you a massage to prevent soreness.”

  From his nightstand, Ben produced an oil lubricant, and wasn’t shy in its application. He covered Vinnie’s legs, being careful with the healed fractures. He rubbed Vinnie’s chest then pancake-flipped him onto his back. Vinnie winced with each pressure point.

  “My turn,” Vinnie said. “Let me do you.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, I want to. I mean, I’m going to have to get used to it, won’t I?”

  With a short laugh, Ben said, “No one’s ever put it like that. Don’t you like these?” Ben shot a double-bicep pose. Vinnie’s face puckered.

  Like Vinnie, Ben faced down, and Vinnie prepared for overtime facing a sprawling back wider than the bed, the ridges calling for a ski patrol. Vinnie feather-kneaded, then gave hi
s best pizza-dough massage to Ben’s bulbous ass.

  “Ben, what the fuck do you have inside this ass? I can’t move them.”

  “You’re not supposed to; that’s the point.”

  “Not for me.”

  Ben rolled over, his chest mile-high. Vinnie tried again, working the mounds that loomed up. He might as well have done jumping jacks for all the impact he had.

  Ben flexed his arm again, and the dual cannonball lifted, the veins surfacing the almost non-existent skin. Vinnie felt the rebar-reinforced veins. Ben was skin, muscle, and nothing else.

  “I don’t get it,” Vinnie said. “Maybe never will. Do you really need to have veins showing?”

  “You do if you want to win a contest.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Um… do we need to talk about this? Is it a problem?”

  “Don’t think so. Like I said, best fuck ever, so, not a problem. And what about you? Want to talk about it? I’m not good enough for you, am I?”

  “Hell, Vinnie, you are. The sex was great, and it’ll get better once I know I won’t hurt you. You still need weeks to recuperate fully. It’s not you.”

  “Then what?”

  “Can we talk about it later?”

  “Why wait?”

  “Because I loved it too much to analyze my feelings. Is that good enough for now?”

  “Yes, as long as I know I satisfied you.”

  “You did. In fact, I’m ready for another round. How about you?”

  Without warning, Ben pulled Vinnie on top, bench-pressing him overhead, this human barbell much lighter than Ben’s normal iron-plated version. With slower buildup, the two men had another session, with Ben on bottom, a precaution to safeguard Vinnie. They both knew this was good, and they both worried it might end too soon.

  Ben had waited a long time for sex that had affection—ever since he’d lost Davis. He had forgotten the feeling. The unrequited yearning played in Ben’s mind and his loins. His penis was excited, his hypothalamus energized, his scrotum winch-tight. Ben knew he’d cum before Vinnie this time.

  Afterward, Vinnie rested on his back, exhausted. “Even better. This will work, won’t it? Us, together?”

  “I think it will. There’s nothing to stop us.”

  That was Ben’s one sentence too much.

  Chapter 66

  California Bound

  Ristorante Roma was typical of hundreds of Italian restaurants sprouting across New York City’s five boroughs. The decor followed a single design: small wooden tables and chairs in the room’s center with leatherette booths lining the sides. Each table was covered with a checkered tablecloth and had silverware around a small antipasto plate; a tall water glass with a fan-shaped napkin stuffed inside it was set beside an upturned wine glass. A sugar bowl and toothpick glass surrounded matching silver-topped salt and pepper shakers The wall murals depicted the Coliseum, Trajan’s Monument, the Capitoline Hill, and St. Peter’s Basilica. Big John had been to many restaurants like this, but never to Ristorante Roma.

  “Carmine, this is John Briggs, father to the poor kid that you read about—the one that was beaten for being a homo. Remember, it was in all the papers?” Sal “Chopin” Friscollo addressed Carmine like he was talking to an old man with dementia.

  Carmine remembered well—he had assigned Sal the “hit” on Vinnie. And the meeting with the homo’s father had been prearranged, making Carmine’s pretended surprise a farce.

  Big John knew that Carmine was expecting him and that Sal was the man who had nearly killed his son. Yet pretense took precedence over reality. “You don’t know me, Mr. Aquafreddo, so I hope you don’t mind my coming here to talk with you. It’s about my son, Vinnie.”

  “Want a cappuccino? Espresso? Good cannòli, too.” These words signaled Carmine’s agreement to the meeting.

  “Thanks. An espresso would be great,” said Big John, as a return signal that he understood the meeting was a favor.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, Mr. Aquafreddo, it’s a long story; can I make it short?” You know what this is about, and you know the details of my son’s beating, so let’s cut the crap and get on with it.

  “Take your time. I don’t eat dinner for another twenty minutes.” Hurry up and spit it out.

  “This won’t take long.” I got it, you sob. I’ll talk fast. “My son Vinnie recently had trouble with Bill Barrington, a big-shot exec at Del Vecchio & Neale, where my son worked. My son had an unfortunate accident, and he can’t remember anything about it, but he thinks it involves this Barrington guy.” It was Barrington’s contract with you that resulted in Vinnie’s beating and near death. “Vinnie would like to put this behind him.” My son understands this was a business transaction and he’s willing to accept it was nothing more.

  Carmine sipped his cappuccino. “We all like to forget accidents. I’ve heard about this Barrington guy… maybe I read it in the News.” Carmine didn’t need the Daily News to know about crimes committed in Brooklyn, but he enjoyed reading the way the real facts were twisted. “Am I right, Sal? Was it the News that had this?”

  “That’s right. The News had two pages. What a shame. Guy went nuts, from what I remember.”

  Big John saw his opening. “That’s right. He mumbled a lot of stuff. My son Vinnie thought he was crazy for a long time and doesn’t believe a single word. Vinnie wants to forget everything that relates to his terrible time with Barrington and DV&N. Actually, Vinnie doesn’t need to forget, since he’s lost his memory.”

  The waiter delivered Big John’s espresso. “Grazie, Alberto. Nient’altro,” Carmine said, and waved the waiter away.

  “There’s one more thing. How should I put it… Barrington went ‘postal’ after he was fired. Vinnie tells me that Barrington and a woman accomplice named Linda Lords had planned to embezzle something like seventy-five million.”

  Carmine looked up at Sal. “Imagine that, seventy-five million. We’d have to sell a lot of pizza and cannòli. No more discounts for friends either, right, Sal?”

  “Yeah, maybe we should start charging more for our pizza when we deliver to Manhattan,” said Sal with a pukeface grin. Big John knew this was a communication he couldn’t decipher and didn’t care about.

  “Mr. Aquafreddo, I’d like to let you know a little more about my son and Barrington. Nothing to do with you, but I thought you’d find it useful to know of events that might help your restaurant business.” I’m giving you advance information so you can prepare your options.

  Carmine nodded, and his hand wave signaled for John to speed it up.

  “The word is that Barrington will get life. Vinnie said the guy is missing his top drawer, and the office shooting proves he’s right. Anyway, Barrington’s made up a story about Vinnie’s accident to get a reduced sentence. Vinnie says Barrington’s a liar.”

  Here, Big John related “Vinnie’s version” of the attack. It placed the full blame on Vinnie’s drinking, drugs, and a stupid adventure into the alleyway on an icy night. Big John gave Vinnie’s fictional recall to the DA.

  Carmine understood. Vinnie had contradicted Barrington’s plea bargain, and Vinnie was more believable than the deranged Barrington.

  Big John finished his espresso. Now for the tricky part. “Barrington’s a nutcase, and his story would be dismissed easily except for this Linda Lords—the woman I mentioned before. Well, she wants to save her ass too. Rumor has it she’s willing to corroborate Barrington’s story.”

  Another pause. Was Carmine following this? Even Big John was having trouble with his storyline. But Carmine’s brain was sharp, and uncluttered by emotion or morality.

  “Yeah, very interesting. What’s the end?” Get to the finale. Your time’s nearly up.

  “Lords told someone, I don’t know who exactly, that if she could show that Barrington and she were set up, and it all relates to my son Vinnie, then she thinks she could get the embezzlement and fraud charges reduced, even dropped. She wants to go into p
rotection.”

  Carmine nodded. He knew all about the Federal Witness Protection Program.

  “Crazy, I know, but Vinnie’s worried he’ll be involved in a long trial. He says Lords is smart and might sell her story to the DA. Barrington will have to answer for the killing, but he’ll use an insanity defense, which might work. Vinnie’s says their story is bullshit. Vinnie’s the one who uncovered their embezzlement scheme, so they’re trying to get at him.”

  Carmine increased the stirring of his teaspoon in an empty espresso cup.

  “Let me get to the end,” said John. “Mr. Aquafreddo, Vinnie thinks he should stop talking to the prosecutor, who twists everything. He’s made a video confirming that Barrington and Lords are liars. He’s left it with his lawyer. Vinnie’s had a rough time recuperating. I think he needs sunshine, maybe to move away from the New York winters, nothing to remind him of the past.” He’ll be away from any state prosecutors. Vinnie’s not going to remember anything.

  A chin nod from Carmine.

  “I thought he should try California. But you know, kids today think their parents are stupid. That’s why I thought he might respect your opinion, a businessman with lots of experience. That’s why I’m here. What do you think? Should I tell Vinnie someone like yourself thinks this would be good for his recuperation?” Do you consider Vinnie a threat? Do you accept that Vinnie’s not going to testify?

  Carmine looked to Sal, who said nothing. Which said everything.

  “Tell your boy I think California’s a nice place. People who suffer accidents in New York can recuperate and have good health in the Californian sun. He should buy Californian olive oil until the price of the better Sicilian drops, which I’m guessing might happen in two years. I hear the airfares are cheap over the next three days.”

  Sal took Big John’s espresso cup. Meeting over. Vinnie was a free man if he moved to California and remained out of New York for two years. He had three days’ reprieve.